Detective, Broken
by FoxyRoxy0523
Summary: In a turn of events, John is shot by one of Moriarty's accomplices. In the hospital, Sherlock and John share what may be their final moments, with Lestrade supporting them. JohnLocky and depressing.


I don't own Sherlock (sadly), and this fic was a team fiction with my BFF Emily, who I am trying to force into getting an account on here. This is a tearjerker that will burn the HEART out of you, and has plenty of Johnlock fluff. Please leave us reviews, they help a lot. Enjoy!

The door slammed shut as the client left. Earlier that morning, a client had come to 221B Baker Street, asking for assistance. They said that their friend had received an odd phone call yesterday night, and today, the friend had left his home suddenly without any notice. Sherlock was eager to investigate the case, and the client left with a thanks.

"So, Sherlock,-" John began but was cut off by a knock at the door. The door opened and the client stuck their head through the door.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I forgot to mention one thing. You took my favorite person in the world, Jim Moriarty, away from me. So I'm going to take your favorite person away from you," the client smiled maliciously. Before Sherlock could register what was happening, the client pulled out a gun and pointed it at John.

"Say goodbye to your precious John. I hope you burn in hell," The client pulled the trigger.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed. John slumped down in his chair, blood staining his jumper scarlet. The client laughed and closed the door. Sherlock ran over to John. The bullet had entered through the lower part of his chest. "John, John- wake up- John, can you hear me?" Sherlock shook him frantically and got no response. "Oh my god, oh my god-" Sherlock was moving around blindly, panic consuming him. Then, through the static of absolute fear, one thought came to him: call 999.

The ambulance arrived to find a shaking Sherlock cradling John, trying to stop his bleeding with a towel. They took John out of the flat on a stretcher, with a frantic Sherlock on their toes. They put the bloodstained, unconscious John into the ambulance along with Sherlock, switched on their lights and alarms, and sped off to the hospital.

Over the sounds of the sirens, Sherlock heard a moan from John. "John! John can you hear me! JOHN!"

"Sh-Sherlock?" He barely mustered.

"John, you're going to be ok. Just hold on, ok?" A shy grin crept across John's face.

"Ok" he whispered, and his eyes fell.

"No! John, stay with me!" Sherlock yelled, his blue-green eyes drowned in panic. He can't bear to lose him. He can't. John opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock without a word.

"Th-thank you" John mumbled.

"For what?"

"For putting adventure in my life. I couldn't go on without you." He smiles again, a true but painful smile. "Listen, if I don't make it," John begins to say.

"Don't talk like that, John. You're going to live."

"Sherlock, I've seen so many people die from being shot, and I know my time is short. Remember, I was an army doctor, you know."

"I don't care, you HAVE to live."

A small laugh slips out as he says, "I'll try." He falls unconscious again. Sherlock slumps down in his seat, shaking.

"No. No, no no. NO!" He slams his fist into the ambulance wall. "No, John. Don't go," he whispers quietly.

The ambulance parks in the hospital. The nurses rush John into the ER. "Excuse me. You need to stay in the waiting room." A nurse says to Sherlock.

"B-but" Sherlock stutters, disbelieving.

"I'm sorry. He'll be out soon."

Sherlock stumbled over to one of the waiting room arm chairs dazedly. He sank into the chair hard, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. He couldn't believe this was happening. His best friend was in the hospital, almost dying. No, Sherlock thought to himself, he can't die.I refuse.

The door to the waiting room swung open. "Sherlock, I just got the news. Mrs Hudson rang me. Is John okay?" Lestrade asked, out of breath.

Sherlock sat in the chair, not even looking at Lestrade, silent and unresponsive. He was a prisoner of his own fear, silenced by worry.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. Oh god, he thought, he probably is so worried. John is his best friend. Hold on, John, for Sherlock.

Lestrade went and sat next to Sherlock, trying to think of how he could better the situation. He had been in a similar situation, when his wife left him. It was one of the worst things he had ever experienced- he didn't talk to anyone for over a month. He drowned his depression in cigarettes and alcohol. It was the lowest point of his life- he strained under the sadness every day. Overcome with sympathy and sheer emotion, Lestrade acted on his first impulse: he leaned over and hugged Sherlock. It was very stiff and awkward, and Sherlock tensed up at the human contact, obviously uncomfortable. Lestrade released Sherlock hastily and nervously ran his hand through his hair.

"Sherlock, talk to me," Lestrade pleaded. "It will be better if you let it all out. Tell me what happened,". Sherlock took a deep inhale and said, voice quavering, "John was shot by one of Moriarty's accomplices. He was shot through the lower part of his chest. He may not-" Sherlock's voice cracked and he went silent.

Lestrade processed this information, and after a long silence, he said, "Well, all of Scotland Yard is rooting for him. I hope he gets better,".

The doors to the Intensive Care unit swung open, and a nurse rushed in.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson has requested to see you. We're afraid he might not live for much longer," the nurse said breathlessly.

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and sped into the ICU, practically bowling the nurse over. He ran as fast as he could, not stopping for anyone. I have to make it to him, he thought, before it's too late.

He found John's room, 756, and stopped. He felt his heart pounding. He knew this could be one of his last moments with John. As he rose his fist to knock, his hand shook. He quietly knocked, but got no reply. "John?" Again, nothing. He decided to just come in. The door opened with a loud creak. Sherlock found John lying asleep in the hospital bed. He didn't want to wake John, but he knew he had a limited time. Sherlock loudly cleared his throat, and a moan came from John. He turned on his side and looked up at Sherlock.

"Sorry for waking you." Sherlock mumbled.

"I don't mind," John gave him a smile, but Sherlock saw the pain in his eyes. Sherlock, for once in his life, didn't know what to say. "Listen," John whispered, "I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Mary, and everyone else, that I don't know what I could've done without them." Sherlock just sat in silence. "But you, Sherlock Holmes, have been the best thing that has happened to me." He pauses, thinking hard on his choice of words, for they could be some of his last. "Sherlock, I love you." he says. Sherlock's eyes grow wide.

"Y-you do? You love me?" How could anyone love me? he thought.

"Yes, I always have and I always will." Sherlock pauses for a moment, unsure of how to react.

"Well, I love you too John." He couldn't hide his feelings anymore. He knew he could have told John that he had feelings for anyone for the first time, but now he had to.

"You, love me?"

"How could I not?" They smile at each other, then Sherlock comes closer to John. They look into each other's eyes, then it happens. Sherlock leans closer to John, and they kiss. John slowly and gently rubs his hand through Sherlock's dark, silky curls. He knew that he had always wanted this, but it may never happen again. They pull away from each other with care, breathless with desire.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson will be happy." John says, and they let out weak laughs. They stare into each other's eyes, clear sky blue into glittering ocean. John tries to turn over on the bed, but winces with pain.

"John, listen, I-I think you're dying. You don't have much longer here." Sherlock didn't know any other way to put it. He never was very good at putting things anyway other than bluntly. John smiles, trying to stay positive.

"Nah dip Sherlock." He gives Sherlock a wink. Sherlock tries to make out a laugh, but finds himself to be silent.

John's breathing gets more rapid and shallow, his life leaving him. "Goodbye Sherlock." John whispered. His blue eyes, once so full of life, shut for the final time. Sherlock didn't know what to say. Then he hears it. The heart monitor with once a steady beat falls to a single, flat beep.

All of the color drained out of Sherlock's face. This deduction was caught too late, and now John was dead. Died in front of his own eyes, right after they just told each other their true feelings. His only true friend, his true love, his partner, was dead.

"No, no, no,- John, please don't be dead. Please," Sherlock begged, saying please for the first time in his life. He is becoming more and more hysterical, breath coming in short, rapid bursts.

"No no no nonononnono NO!" Sherlock shrieks at the top of his lungs. Then, he shatters. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, the world famous consulting detective, breaks. Silent tears slip down his face, rapidly turning to sobs. All of his bottled up emotions, stored up over many years, come out in a flood. He hunches over John's lifeless body, his tears soaking John's hospital gown. Sherlock takes off his trench coat, and lays it over John's cold body. He takes John's limp hand, the one that had just caressed his face with love earlier, and gently places a kiss on it before sinking to the floor.

Sherlock trembles violently, body wracked with pain and sobs. He remembers the very first day they met, and moved in together. He remembers trying to save John from the Golem. He remembers ripping the bomb vest off of John, scared for both of their lives. He remembers laughing until their stomachs hurt in Buckingham Palace, giggling at crime scenes with shock blankets, and other happy times. He remembers the times John got angry at him for being rude. He remembers all of his times with John, but the one thing he remembers the most was that he loved, and still loves, John Hamish Watson.

The doors to room 756 push open, and Lestrade comes in.

"The nurse said I could come see-" Lestrade cut short when he saw Sherlock sobbing on the floor. "Oh my god," he whispered, as the gravity of the situation hit him. "Oh my god, John is-is-" Lestrade choked. Sherlock's best friend was dead. Lestrade felt hot tears slip down his face, for he had lost a good friend too, and the sight of Sherlock broke his heart. He crouched down next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. I-" he stopped as Sherlock, tears still running steadily down his face, leaned over and hugged Lestrade, burying his face into his coat. Lestrade held his friend back, both of them crying for the beautiful person in their life that they had lost- John Watson,

It was a month after John's funeral, and Sherlock was on the rooftop of St. Bart's, his coat flapping in the cold London wind. He reached into his pocket, got out his mobile, and phoned John's number. The dial tone met his ears, and the familiar voicemail message played.

After the beep, Sherlock said into the phone, "Last time I did this, I was saying goodbye,". A single tear slithered down his cheekbone, shining in the light. "This time, I am saying hello," a shaky smile spreads across his face. "I'm coming for you, John,".

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and he jumps.


End file.
